Free writing workshop for aspiring authors of young adult and middle grade fiction. The first five pages may be all that agents, editors, and readers read, so get them right with the help of three authors over the course of three weeks. During the third week, an agent will also critique your pages and your pitch and pick a workshop winner - the prize is a partial request!

Monday, November 19, 2012

The final revisions of the November workshop are posted below. Scroll down and read, and please jump in with comments. This is our last chance to give these writers our feedback, so the more the merrier. Would you keep reading? What's your first impression? Are you confused about anything?

And don't forget that we're starting a new workshop on December 1st. Read the rules (see the tabs at the top of the page) to find out how to enter your own work.

“Stupid son of a bitch! God! What were you thinking? Have you just totally lost your ever lovin’ mind? You didn’t think they’d come after you?”

“Calm down Brooklyn. Everything will be okay.”

Really? I don’t say anything more because we’ve already been through this more times than I can count. Here I am at midnight tossing all of my belongings into our rusted 90’s station wagon all because my father needs to get away. Yet again he owes some low-life hustler a ton of cash that he can’t give him. Totally not anything new in this family, but I am so sick to death of running. Every time it happens I have to start over and it just keeps getting harder to do.

The really funny thing about our situation is that the guy we’re running from, Carlo, well he’s fat so really we don’t need to run. He won’t catch us. I know that using the word fat is taboo, but when have you ever heard someone calling a drug lord morbidly obese? Not gonna happen, the dude is fat! Carlo obviously isn’t feared for his stealth-like moves, because let’s face it, a guy weighing 400 plus pounds can barely walk. No. It’s the crazy orders of violence he gives his soldiers to carry out. With just the nod of his big head people are maimed and even killed. Rumor has it that with one head shake, a man owing Carlo just five dollars could lose a finger or two. No way does dad want to stick around to see what Carlo has in mind for him; for us. I don’t have any idea how much money he owes Carlo or what he did to attract this type of attention, but I’m not really caring right now. I just know that we have to get out of here. Now.

With the car window down, the air hits my face and I’ m wide awake. It’s four in the morning and I am utterly exhausted, but yet here I am with my eyes wide open. I’m not so much thinking about tonight’s events, but what lay ahead of me. What town we’ll end up in next. After a couple hours on the road already, I don’t see any sign that dad is ready to stop. We have lived in quite a few towns near-by, so I guess we’re moving further away this time. Away from everything I’ve known for the past year. I can’t even guess at what will happen next. Will we stay for a few weeks in a motel? Find an apartment to rent? Somehow run into an old friend of dad’s who’ll let us stay rent-free for a while? Who knows.

Does it even matter where we end up? Not really. Most girls my age would just collapse after such trauma but you see, I am not your average ordinary girl. I don’t look like any of those sweet perky twelve year-olds. I’m--different. I like black. Black everything. I don’t want people to really notice me, so black fits. Although I love wearing black clothes, I do not dye my hair black and wear heavy black eyeliner. That’s just trashy and not my style, plus it would call too much attention to myself.

I tend to hide in plain sight. I hide behind my clothes and my plain, strait brown hair. No one really knows who I am, not even dear old dad. If he really knew what was inside of me, he’d consider turning me over to the state. Maybe have me committed so that no harm came to me or someone else. He’d wonder how Brooklyn Rose, his beautiful baby girl, could have hidden her thorns for so long. Never allowed them to take a chunk out of someone. Never make someone bleed. Dad doesn’t need to really know me; what I think about. What I crave. It will be my secret. The one I don’t let anyone see.

“You alright over there Brooklyn?”

“Yeah dad. Tell me, what did you do this time?”

“Don’t worry about it. This is all just one big misunderstanding. Carlo will get over it and we’ll be able to go back home soon.”

“That’s what you said last time about Ramone. We never went back dad.”

“That was different.”

I could recite this conversation in my head. We’ve had the same one more times than I could count, but I just don’t have the heart to really find out why we had to slip away in the middle of the night. I guess I don’t really care enough any more, plus I’m just too damn tired.

****

Every night as I try to find some peace in my dreams I remember that next night. The night we had little warning that they were coming for us. Dad came into my bedroom in a panic. He shook me awake and shouted at me to get up. I knew they had found us. As I swung my legs to the floor, dad was zipping up our open suitcases. I was pulling up my jeans when the men broke in. They came for dad but also found me, his innocent twelve year-old daughter. An added bonus for the four guys that kicked in the motel room door.

There was so much yelling that I couldn’t distinguish much that was said, but I did hear something about dad owing someone money and he’d be sure to pay. Three of the men took dad outside, while one stayed with me in the room. I’ll never forget the feeling of his fists in my hair as he yanked me around the room. I was hit, kicked, punched. I don’t really remember any of this though. The nurses at the hospital told me about the injuries once I became conscious.

What I do remember is when the knife sliced my skin. The man looked me right in the eyes as he told me how he was going to cut open my throat and watch me bleed. I remember the look of lust and need in his eyes. This man enjoyed hurting me, in fact I don’t think he would have physically been able to leave without causing blood to spill.

Very methodically he made a small slice on my arm; seemed just to want to see how deep his blade would cut with just a small amount of pressure. Once satisfied with the cut, he kissed my forehead and slowly made a slice across my throat. That’s when I lost myself. Right there. I was no longer me. That is how I became a monster.

Chapter 2

I sit and watch the blood run down his arm. It isn’t my job to wipe it away, not yet anyway. Today I just get to watch Jonathan use his rag to remove the ink-stained liquid. I am a witness to all of this and can’t participate in making him bleed. The fact that I am not the one causing the pain is truly killing me. I want my hands on him. I want to be the one holding the needle etching into his skin, spilling pain and blood. It will be my turn soon, but not until I turn 18. Damn laws.

For now all I can do is dream of the blood I will spill. The pain I will cause.

Name: Dana Edwards
Genre: MG, contemporary
Title: The Summer I Started a Business, Solved a Bank Robbery, and Showed Up on Cajun
Pawn Stars

Chapter 1

I sat down in the Lobby and watched the Grim Reaper work the room. Mr. Whiskers approached each occupied chair demanding attention. Then he rubbed his back against the leg of the couch and meowed at me as if to ask, “What?” He sauntered off and curled up on the rug in front of the sliding glass door that led to the courtyard.

This was going to be the worse summer of my life—stuck for the third year in a row at Mom’s work. The highlight of the morning was watching the most popular resident of Southside Gardens Assisted Living and Nursing Home lick his paws. I saw Amy walk in the front door and followed her to the Beauty Parlor.

“Hey, Haley. How’s your summer going?” Amy asked as she balanced the box of beauty supplies on her hip while unlocking the parlor door.

“So far it stinks. Mom won’t trust me to stay home alone by myself so I have to come here every day—all summer long.” Amy almost fell in when the door gave way. “Is she afraid you’ll burn the house down?”

I followed her in and plopped down in the first pink chair with the hair dryer attached to it. “No. She’s afraid I’ll spend my whole summer in front of the TV watching Cajun Pawn Stars. I told her that wasn’t even possible seeing how Cajun Pawn Stars only comes on a couple of times a week, but as you can see, I’m here.” I pushed the buttons. ON. OFF. COOL. OFF.

Amy put on her smock and started mixing the hair dye in her little wooden bowl. “This place isn’t so bad. I mean, I’m here.”

The truth was Amy was stuck too. She was here because she couldn’t get hired anywhere else. After she graduated from cosmetology school, her mom’s friend gave her a job at an exclusive salon in Midtown where all the rich clients from Atlanta paid at least $100 for a cut and blow-dry and another $100 for color. Amy didn’t like to talk about it, but let’s just say the mayor’s wife didn’t look good in blue. Hair, that is. Anyway, Southside Gardens was the only place she could find a job.

I pulled the hood of the hair dryer over my head and sat there like an astronaut waiting for the big countdown when Amy said, “So, have your heard about the girl who’s here?”

“Is her name Haley Thayer and is she sitting right in front of you?” I asked.

“No, silly. Her name is Rachel and she’s 16. She was hit by a car. She’s been here for almost two months.”

I shot up and clanged my forehead on the hair dryer. “Ow. There’s another kid here? A girl? Where is she?” Summer is so looking up. I started thinking about all the things we could do—hang out, play cards, watch TV, knock out our required summer reading, …

“She’s upstairs. She’s in a coma.”

“What? That’s awful. What happened?” I asked.

Amy sat beside me and leaned in close. “Well, there’s all sorts of stories, but I know this for a fact…the car that hit her…” She paused for effect. Amy lived for drama.

I leaned in closer to her. “Yessss?”

“It was driven by…bank robbers,” she said.

“Bank robbers? Really?” Amy was probably just trying to make my summer more interesting. I appreciated her effort.

“Well, that what I’ve heard. You should check it out.” Amy stood up and turned on the curling iron and hot rollers.

Maybe. But I had more important business. “Mom said I might be able to find some odd jobs around here. I’m saving up for a cell phone.” I straightened the stack of magazines on the table beside me. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Is there anything I can do to help you? For money, that is?”

“Hum, let’s see. I guess I could use a shampoo girl. Are you interested in that?” Amy asked.

“Gross. No. I can’t stick my hands in other people’s hair.” Oops. “No offense. I was thinking something more like, sweeping or helping the old ladies out of their wheelchairs and walkers and into the chairs. Or…I could go through your magazines and toss out the old ones.” I lifted the Southern Living and looked at the date. “See, this one right here is four months old. The main article is about traveling to some tulip farm when the ladies should be reading about taking trips to the beach.”

“I don’t really think any of our residents are planning trips to the beach.” Amy separated the medium sized perm rollers from the small ones. “Housekeeping sweeps for me and the nursing assistants help the ladies in and out of their chairs. What about manicures? How do you feel about painting other people’s nails?”

“Is painting inside the lines required?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

“Sort of. Why don’t you ask Chef Michael if he has a job for you?” Amy asked.
“The Dining Hall? Barf. I wouldn’t step foot in there if my life…” The door pushed open and Mr. Whiskers sashayed in.

“Well, hello there.” Amy bent down to pet him.

“I hate that cat,” I said. Mr. Whiskers rubbed against Amy’s legs. “He’s just like that cat I saw on the morning news show last year. You remember—the one in Rhode Island. I think his name was Owen. Or maybe it was Oscar. Anyway, they’re probably distant cousins.”

“Are you still on that?” Amy asked. She looked at her calendar for the day.

“Mom doesn’t believe me either, but it’s true. Whenever Mr. Whiskers spends the night on a resident’s bed, that resident ends up dead the next day. It’s a proven fact. It’s like he has a sixth sense or something.” Just then, he hopped up on my lap. I refused to pet him, but he stayed there anyway. “Great. I’m glad I’m not spending the night.”

“Last summer, I saw him sleeping on Mr. Fairbanks’ bed and the next morning, he was gone,” I continued.

“Where’d he go?” she asked.

“He was DEAD, Amy. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Either Mr. Whiskers can tell who’s going to die and he throws one last farewell slumber party or Mr. Whiskers is somehow murdering the residents.”

Amy laughed, then she snorted. I loved making Amy laugh just to hear it.

“I guess the fact that Mr. Fairbanks was 98 and in poor health had nothing to do with his death,” she said.

“Just you wait. My mission this summer is to get a cell phone and prove my theory.” I nudged Mr. Whiskers with my elbow until he hopped on the floor. “Who’s your next victim?” He stretched his front paws out and arched his back. I called out, “I’m gonna keep an eye on you, cat,” as he walked out the door.

Amy wrote the names of the ladies who were getting their hairdos done that morning on the dry erase board.

Essie Smith 9:30

Bonnie Williams 10:30

Lilia Hendrix 11:30

I wanted to be sure I was long gone before Miss Essie showed up for her appointment. Sometimes she mistook me for her daughter, Katherine. I could understand the confusion. Katherine was probably 65 by now; I was twelve. Katherine most likely was a grandmother herself and lived in Michigan where Miss Essie was from; I was in middle school and lived in a suburb of Atlanta. Yeah, it was like we were almost twins.

Name: Ki-Wing Merlin
Genre: Middle Grade Mystery
Title: Weaving a Net Is Better than Praying for Fish at the Edge of the Water

Reena likes Tony Arias, so I agreed to keep an eye on him.

"I can tail him!" I said when she asked me after school. Then I jumped up, zipped my jacket and flipped its hood over my head. "Ninja-style," I whispered. Behind us, the metal double doors of our school banged open and another wave of kids poured into the yard. Crouching low on one leg and splaying the other, I grinned at Reena and raised a finger to my lips.

But she shrieked, "No!" and waved her hands in front of her face. "Get up! Come on, Allie. You know that’s not what I mean."

"Allen," I corrected and stood slowly. I was about to fall anyway.

She rolled her eyes. "We’re too old to be acting like tomboys." Reena doesn’t usually count herself with me as a tomboy, so that was generous of her actually.

"It’s my name," I insisted. Still I smiled and sat down beside her on the brick wall. A sneaker flew overhead and crashed into the giant oak across the yard. Leaves shook down, mixing with those kicked up by the hacky sackers. Reena and I watched and leaned into each other, a kind of sideways hug. This was going to be the best year. I was starting seventh grade in a new school, and my best friend was here with me.

"Whatever," I said, when she got still suddenly. I followed her eyes to the pair of eighth graders walking past us to the oak. The girl leaned against the tree trunk, and the boy, it seemed, started slobbering on her face. Next to me, Reena held her breath.

"So you’ll watch him?" she asked again, her voice hush.

"Yeah." I looked away. I don’t even know why I turned red.

So I climbed onto the crowded Darlington City bus and stole straight to a window seat halfway to the back, just in front of Tony. I always hide on buses. But a ponytailed girl plopped down next to me, and between when I peeked at the space in front of our seats and started panicking that I was too late and wouldn’t fit anyway, I remembered. I didn’t need to hide anymore. I was supposed to be on this bus.

Then I was grinning something silly as I counted. Ten of us, seventh and eighth graders, all riding home on the same bus from the same school. This was something new. Meanwhile Ponytail couldn’t stop bouncing and I had to squish because her supersized backpack took over most of her orange plastic seat and half of mine too. A faint sour smell blew by, like maybe the baby screaming on his mother’s lap across the aisle needed changing.

"I’m Kate!" Ponytail shouted at me over the noise. She squashed down her backpack and scooted closer. "Isn’t Booker T even better than you imagined?" Her long ponytail swung and whacked me square across the face.

Tony burst into a laugh behind us. Kate gasped and turned, and her ponytail smacked him too.

Rubbing my eyes, I cracked up. I doubled over and grasped my sides, and I wasn’t even a little invisible.

Kate’s cheeks flushed.

"I’m Allen," I said and pushed back my bangs. Yeah, goodbye invisibility.

"Yup, certified smarty-pants." He puffed out his chest like he had a medal pinned to it.

I laughed and Kate started gushing about the computer labs we toured today. "What’s your favorite part of Booker T?" she asked when she was done.

"Um, the computers were cool." I snapped one of my jacket pockets.

Tony’s eyes shot upwards, but he grinned.

That’s when I blurted, "Really, I got tired of lying."

Kate turned. "What do you mean?"

Then my fingers itched to pull my hood over my head and I had to jam them under my legs. I spilled it all. It turned out, telling a long-held secret is like releasing an overfilled balloon you just untied. The opening’s all twisted at first, so the air spurts and the balloon zigs every which way. But eventually, everything settles. There’s a steady hiss and then the balloon lands.

Eventually, I got into a rhythm too.

The truth is my family moved to Darlington two years ago. We found out the school in our neighborhood wasn’t very good and I ended up registered at another school with the address of a family friend. I’d been lying about addresses and hiding on buses since then.

I told all that in one breath while Kate chewed her lower lip. Really she looked about to grab both my shoulders and lunge in for a hug. I leaned back, because I’m more of a sideways hug kind of person. Still, that was sweet.

Tony nodded. "Sounds rough."

"Yeah," I said. "You wouldn’t believe how many times you have to give your address in school."

He started rattling off the forms we filled out just today in orientation.

"Not just forms." I shuddered at a memory. "Did you have that map unit last year in your schools?"

"Yes!" He leaned forward. "Oh man, you had to do that for your fake address?"

"Yup. Draw a map from school to this house I’d never been in, count the traffic lights and stops signs along the way, diagram the alternate routes, sketch the important buildings…." I went on, listing the tortures. "Did that unit last forever?"

Kate’s eyes widened. "So what did you do?"

"Well, I got pretty good at lying." I grinned. "But I don’t need to anymore, right? Booker T’s citywide!"

They laughed with me, and I started imagining other new experiences: running to each others’ homes after dinner, hanging out on each others’ front steps. Kate grabbed my hand and squeezed. I hesitated, then squeezed back. We beamed, and she squealed, "This is going to be the best year! I’m so excited!"

And that was exactly how I felt. My big secret was gone. This was going to be the best year. No more hiding.

“Hey new girl. Who’d you fucking maim to get sent to butt crack Clatskanie as a senior?” she’d asked, snaking up behind me so silently I jumped.

If she’d stopped there – we would have been fine.

“Or maybe it wasn’t you, someone else. Maybe that’s why I’ve never seen your mom around. She locked up somewhere? Or was it that pretty sister of yours?”

Then-slap. She’d gone too far. This girl who I’d never met seemed to know a little too much about me – including exactly how to push my buttons.

After it happened we both just stared at my palm, me holding it up like I was carrying an invisible platter.

“Oh princess,” she said, a smirk forming on her skeletal face, swallowed cheeks showing the traces of dimples. “You so did not just do that.”

“How do you know anything about me?” I kept my voice low, even though we were alone in a back hallway, sounds filtering out of the cafeteria, but no one had actually been there – no witnesses.

She tossed her head back and snorted with giddy laughter, obviously pleased she’d crawled under my skin so quickly..

She was psychotic. A stalker.

A psychotic-stalker with the tips of her straw-blonde hair dyed a blindingly bright fluorescent pink –obviously freshly done in a home sink the night before. Stalking was the only thing that would explain how she knew anything about me. I’d lived in Clatskanie all of three weeks. I’d attended Clatskanie High all of four hours. Psychotic was the only thing that would explain her apparent ability to completely ignore pain. Either that or I just didn’t slap very hard.

“I read you like a book,” she leaned in, moving in a half-circle around me. Two kids tumbled out of a nearby classroom, laughing so hard they didn’t even notice me, an innocent new student, was being circled by this vulture of a girl. I shifted along with her body, not willing to let Pink-Hair out of my eyesight, not even for a second. “Look at you, just standing here, longingly staring at these photos of what, is it this girl you want to be?”

She gestured to the timeline of photos I’d been lost in. Photos of Clatskanie high students past – a whole timeline dating back to the first year the school was open in 1942. There were pictures of everyone who accomplished something. The state championship wrestling team, the debate team who was invited to a national competition - and the prom courts from every year.

Pink-Hair was pointing to the latest addition – the prom queen from the year before, her golden locks twisting and twirling in a side ponytail, her smile so alluring I’d been sucked right in. Pink-Hair was right, I had been staring. I’d been thinking it should have been my sister Cassie – which was ridiculous, considering the year before Cassie and I went to high school in Portland – but I couldn’t help but feel slighted when I saw the photo. Cassie would have been the perfect prom queen, everyone thought so. Until that dumbass Jared took it all away from her and ruined my life along with it.

And then Pink-Hair sauntered up with her all too-knowing comment and I snapped.

“You’re wrong about everything,” I said, shrugging like I hadn’t been fussed at all. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” The last thing I needed was for this girl, or anyone at my new school for that matter, to have any reason to suppose I had a secret.

At least Pink-Hair didn’t seem like the type to be slapped and tattle. She was enjoying it too much to have to deal with things like teachers and detention, which I surely deserved.

I fumbled in the small pocket of my backpack for my school schedule, just wanting to get away from her and on to my next class.

With shaking hands, I tried to unfold the paper, the creases so thick and deep it was on the verge of tearing. In a fluid motion she snatched it from my hands.

With a snort and a roll of her eyes she handed it back to me.

Mr. Lee – Homeroom – Wednesdays only – Room 124

“And to think,” Pink-Hair said. “Your pearl earrings almost fooled me into thinking you were just a sweet little girl that would be fun to mess with.” She flicked at my ear lobe, the stud jiggling, and I pulled my head away but didn’t retaliate. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

With one last nasty smile, she turned and stormed away, her to-the-thigh laced up black leather boots beating onto the floor with a satisfying rhythm of power.

The bell rang, signaling lunch was over, and kids immediately poured in every door of the school, weaving their way around each other going to class. Silently, I slipped into the tide.

Room 124 was in the math and science wing, the tile floor screeched under my shoes I as I took tiny steps so I didn’t run into the guy walking slowly in front of me. Finally, I made it to my homeroom door, and with a deep breath, collected myself, ready to go in and be that simple, sweet girl anyone and everyone would want to be friends with.

But when I opened the door the only thing that greeted me was Pink-Hair, already at a desk, a smug smile on her face. Her pointed finger was anchored in the thumbhole of a pair of scissors which she spun mercilessly on the desk, so fast, she made the kid next to her cringe.

“Welcome to the Killers Club,” she said.

Chapter Two

“That’s not what we are,” the boy sitting beside Pink-Hair said. He had a yellow bag leaning up against his leg, a messenger bag and thick-rimmed glasses which took over his face . “She just made that up, it’s not a registered school club.”

I barely heard his words. I was caught off guard by the circle of chairs.

How I hated circles of chairs. It meant talking about feelings. Counselors. Accusations. Either that or musical chairs, but I didn’t hear any music playing.

A teacher typed away in the far back corner of the room, and looked up briefly when he saw my hesitation.

“You must be Jane,” the teacher, Mr Lee I assumed, called out. “You can sit by Scarlett there,” he waved towards Pink-Hair. Scarlett apparently.

“Are you okay?” Yellow-Bag Boy asked me, adjusting his big round glasses. Maybe I was out of focus. He had three pencils and two pens lined up neatly at the top of his desk and a red notebook that matched his red skinny tie centered perfectly on the table, just like the tie centered perfectly on his white collared short sleeve shirt.

Name: Dana Edwards
Genre: MG, contemporary
Title: The Summer I Started a Business, Solved a Bank Robbery, and Showed Up on Cajun
Pawn Stars

Chapter 1

The smell from the kitchen was putrid. If I had to eat that stuff every day, I’d start a riot or something. Tapioca, creamed peas, not-quite-sturdy jello. Yuck. Wednesdays were a tiny bit better—swiss steak, green beans, and rice pudding. That menu was definitely geared toward the residents with teeth. But today was Tuesday so I’d situate myself closer to the Beauty Parlor and further from the Dining Hall.

“Hey, Haley. How’s your summer going?” Amy asked as she balanced the box of beauty supplies on her hip while unlocking the parlor door.

“So far it stinks. Mom won’t trust me to stay home alone by myself so I have to come to work with her every day. I’m stuck here all summer.” Amy almost fell in when the door gave way. “Is she afraid you’ll burn the house down?”

I followed her in and plopped down in the first pink chair with the hair dryer attached to it. “No. She’s afraid I’ll spend my whole summer in front of the TV watching Cajun Pawn Stars. I told her that wasn’t even possible seeing how Cajun Pawn Stars only comes on a couple of times a week, but as you can see, I’m here.” I pushed the buttons. ON. OFF. COOL. OFF.

Amy put on her smock and started mixing the hair dye in her little wooden bowl. “This place isn’t so bad. I mean, I’m here.”

The truth was Amy was stuck too. She was here because she couldn’t get hired anywhere else. After she graduated from cosmetology school, her mom’s friend gave her a job at an exclusive salon in Midtown where all the rich clients from Atlanta paid at least $100 for a cut and blow-dry and another $100 for color. Amy didn’t like to talk about it, but let’s just say the mayor’s wife didn’t look good in blue. Hair, that is. Anyway, Southside Gardens Assisted Living and Nursing Home was the only place she could find a job.

I looked up and started counting the tiny holes in the hood of dryer when Amy said, “So, have your heard about the girl who’s here?”

“Is her name Haley Thayer and is she sitting right in front of you?” I asked. Where was I? Twenty-one, twenty-two…

“No, silly. Her name is Rachel and she’s 16. She was hit by a car. She’s been here for two months now.”

I shot up. “There’s another kid here? A girl? Where is she?” Summer is so looking up. I started thinking about all the things we could do—hang out, play cards, watch TV…

“She’s upstairs. She’s in a coma.”

“What? That’s awful. What happened?” I asked.

Amy sat beside me and leaned in close. “Well, there’s all sorts of stories, but I know this for a fact…the car that hit her…” She paused for effect. Amy lived for drama.

I leaned in closer to her. “Yessss?”

“It was driven by…bank robbers,” she said.

“Bank robbers? Really?” Amy was probably just trying to make my summer more interesting. I appreciated her effort.

“Well, that what I’ve heard. You should check it out.” Amy stood up and turned on the curling iron and hot rollers.

Maybe. But I had more important business. “Mom said I might be able to find some odd jobs around here. I’m saving up for a cell phone.” I straightened the stack of magazines on the table beside me. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Is there anything I can do to help you? For money, that is?”

“Hum, let’s see. I guess I could use a shampoo girl. Are you interested in that?” Amy asked.

“Gross. No. I can’t stick my hands in other people’s hair.” Oops. “No offense. I was thinking something more like, sweeping or helping the old ladies out of their wheelchairs and walkers and into the chairs. Or…I could go through your magazines and toss out the old ones.” I lifted the Southern Living and looked at the date. “See, this one right here is four months old. The main article is about traveling to some tulip farm when the ladies should be reading about taking trips to the beach.”

“I don’t really think any of our residents are planning trips to the beach.” Amy separated the medium sized perm rollers from the small ones. “Housekeeping sweeps for me and the nursing assistants help the ladies in and out of their chairs. What about manicures? How do you feel about painting other people’s nails?”

“Is painting inside the lines required?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

“Sort of. Why don’t you ask Chef Michael if he has a job for you?” Amy asked.

“The Dining Hall? Barf. I wouldn’t step foot in there if my life…” The door pushed open and the most popular resident of Southside Gardens sashayed in.

“Are you still on that?” Amy asked. She looked at her calendar for the day.

“Mom doesn’t believe me either, but it’s true. Whenever Mr. Whiskers spends the night on a resident’s bed, that resident ends up dead the next day. It’s a proven fact. It’s like he has a sixth sense or something.” Just then, he hopped up on my lap. I refused to pet him, but he stayed there anyway. “Great. I’m glad I’m not spending the night.”

“Last summer, I saw him sleeping on Mr. Fairbanks’ bed and the next morning, he was gone,” I continued.

“Where’d he go?” she asked.

“He was DEAD, Amy. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Either Mr. Whiskers can tell who’s going to die and he throws one last farewell slumber party or Mr. Whiskers is somehow murdering the residents.”

Amy laughed. She snorted when she laughed and that always made me laugh. Amy wrote the names of the ladies who were getting their hairdos done that morning on the dry erase board.

Essie Smith 9:30

Bonnie Williams 10:30

Lilia Hendrix 11:30

I wanted to be sure I was long gone before Miss Essie showed up for her appointment. Sometimes she mistook me for her daughter, Katherine. I could understand the confusion. Katherine was probably 65 by now; I was twelve. Katherine most likely was a grandmother herself and lived in Michigan where Miss Essie was from; I was in middle school and lived in a suburb of Atlanta. Yeah, it was like we were almost twins.

Mom explained that Miss Essie, like lots of the old folks in the nursing home, had periods of dementia. That’s where you get confused and forget stuff like what you had for breakfast or where you put your teeth or that your daughter is now 65.

It was always awkward when I was around Miss Essie. When she called me Katherine, I never knew if I should correct her or just play along. Mom told me to do what felt right at that moment, but to be kind and patient. It was easier to just avoid being in the same room as her.

Amy drew fancy pink and yellow flowers and green vines around all the names on the board. “I guess the fact that Mr. Fairbanks was 98 and in poor health had nothing to do with his death,” she said.

After it happened we both just stared at my palm, me holding it up like I was carrying an invisible platter.

The pain burned so good.

“Oh princess,” she said, a smirk forming on her skeletal face, swallowed cheeks showing the traces of dimples. “You so did not just do that.”

“How do you know about my mom?” I kept my voice low, even though all the other students were gone – at lunch with their friends, laughing and catching up after a long summer.

She tossed her head back and snorted with giddy laughter, obviously pleased she’d pegged me as a mom-less girl so quickly. Her straw-like hair was dyed fluorescent pink at the tips and hung motionless around her shoulders.

She was psychotic. A stalker.

A psychotic-stalker. It was the only thing that would explain how she knew anything about me. I’d lived in Clatskanie all of three weeks. I’d attended Clatskanie High all of four hours.

“I read you like a book,” she leaned in, moving in a half-circle around me. I shifted along with her body, not willing to let this Pink-Hair get behind me, out of my eyesight, not even for a second. “Look at you, just standing here, longingly staring at these photos of what, is it this girl you want to be?”

She gestured to the timeline of photos I’d been lost in. Photos of Clatskanie high students past –the newspaper clubs, the state championship winning basketball team from two years ago. And the prom courts from every year, all the way back to 1942.

Pink-Hair was pointing to the latest addition – the prom queen from the year before, her golden locks twisting and twirling in a side ponytail, her smile so alluring I’d been sucked right in. And she was right, I had been staring. I’d been thinking it should have been my sister Cassie – which was ridiculous, considering the year before Cassie and I went to high school in Portland – but I couldn’t help but feel slighted when I saw the photo. Cassie would have been the perfect prom queen – everyone thought so. Until that dumbass Jared took it all away from her and ruined my life along with it.

Hey new girl. Who’d you fucking maim to get sent to buttcrack Clatskanie as a senior? her words came back to me all in a rush. Or was it something with your mom? Maybe that’s why she never comes home to you.

“You’re wrong about everything,” I said. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” I held my chin high, trying to pretend I’d taken the high road and not whipped out any emotionally-driven self-defense.

At least Pink-Hair didn’t seem like the type to be slapped and tattle. She was enjoying it too much. And no one else saw. No one else at Clatskanie would ever have to know. I fumbled in the small pocket of my backpack for my school schedule, just wanting to get away from her and on to my next class.
With shaking hands, I tried to unfold the paper, the creases so thick and deep it was on the verge of tearing. In a fluid motion she snatched it from my hands.

With a snort and a roll of her eyes she handed it back to me.

Mr. Lee – Homeroom – Wednesdays only – Room 124

“And to think,” Pink-Hair said. “Your pearl earrings almost fooled me into thinking you were just a sweet little girl that would be fun to mess with.” She flicked at my ear lobe, the pearl stud jiggling, and I pulled my head away but didn’t retaliate. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

With one last nasty smile, she turned and stormed away, her to-the-thigh laced up black leather boots beating onto the floor with a satisfying rhythm of power.

The bell rang, signaling lunch was over, and kids immediately poured in every door of the school, weaving their way around each other going to class. Silently, I slipped into the tide, heading in the same direction as Pink-Hair who clearly wasn’t ashamed to walk everywhere alone, without any friends to laugh with her along the way.

Room 124 was in the math and science wing, the tile floor screeched under my shoes I as I took tiny steps so I didn’t run into the guy walking slowly in front of me. Finally, I made it to my homeroom door, and with a deep breath, collected myself, ready to go in and be that simple, sweet girl anyone and everyone would want to be friends with.

But when I opened the door the only thing that greeted me was Pink-Hair, already at a desk, a smug smile on her face. Her pointed finger was anchored in the thumbhole of a pair of scissors which she spun mercilessly on the desk, so fast, she made the kid next to her cringe.

“Welcome to the Killers Club,” she said.

Chapter Two

“That’s not what we are,” the boy sitting beside Pink-Hair said. He had a yellow bag leaning up against his leg, a messenger bag and thick-rimmed glasses which took over his face . “She just made that up, it’s not a registered school club.”

I barely heard his words. I was caught off guard by the circle of chairs.

How I hated circles of chairs. It meant talking about feelings. Counselors. Accusations. Either that or musical chairs, but I didn’t hear any music playing.

A teacher typed away in the far back corner of the room, and looked up briefly when he saw my hesitation.

“You must be Jane,” the teacher, Mr Lee I assumed, called out. “You can sit by Scarlett there,” he waved towards Pink-Hair. Scarlett apparently.

“Are you okay?” Yellow-Bag Boy asked me, adjusting his big round glasses. Maybe I was out of focus. He had three pencils and two pens lined up neatly at the top of his desk and a red notebook that matched his red skinny tie centered perfectly on the table, just like the tie centered perfectly on his white collared short sleeve shirt.

“You’re just standing there,” he said.

“I’m fine,” I decided to obey Mr. Lee, better to get off on a good start with the teacher, and walked to sit down by Scarlett, pretending she was nothing but air.

“You’re new,” Yellow-Bag said. “Clatskanie High only gets new students who are freshmen and on average just one other new person per year. You fill the new student quota.”

“Okay,” I said, staring straight ahead so his words came at me sideways. I wouldn’t risk looking at him, because that would mean looking at her.

“Where are you from?” Yellow-Bag asked.

“Portland.”

“Portland, Maine or Portland, Oregon?” he said, “There are also Portland’s in New Zealand, Canada,
Australia, Jamaica, and many other countries but you sound very American.”

Name: Ki-Wing Merlin
Genre: Middle Grade Mystery
Title: Weaving a Net Is Better than Praying for Fish at the Edge of the Water

Reena likes Tony Arias, so I’m keeping an eye on him.

"Sure, I can tail him!" I said when she asked me after school. Then I jumped up, zipped my jacket and flipped its hood over my head. "Ninja-style," I whispered. Behind us, the metal double doors of our school banged open and another wave of kids poured into the yard. Crouching low on one leg and splaying the other, I grinned at Reena and raised a finger to my lips.

But she shrieked, "No!" and waved her hands in front of her face. "Get up! Come on, Allie. You know that’s not what I mean."

"Allen," I corrected and stood slowly. I was about to fall anyway.

She rolled her eyes. "We’re too old to be acting like tomboys." Reena doesn’t usually count herself with me as a tomboy, so that was generous of her actually.

"It’s my name," I said. Still I smiled and sat down beside her on the brick wall. A sneaker flew overhead and crashed into the giant oak. Leaves shook down, mixing with those kicked up by the hacky sackers. Reena and I watched and leaned into each other, a kind of sideways hug. This was going to be the best year. I was in a new school finally, and my best friend was here with me.

So I'm on a crowded Darlington City bus, riding home from school on the first day of seventh grade. I’m squished in a row halfway to the back, just in front of Tony and beside a ponytailed girl who can’t stop bouncing. I’m squished because Ponytail’s supersized backpack takes up most of her orange plastic seat and half of mine too. There’s a faint sour smell, like maybe the baby screaming on his mother’s lap across the aisle needs changing.

Still I’ve got a big grin on. Sure I climbed onto the bus and stole straight to a window. I always do that. But Ponytail plopped down next to me, and between when I peeked at the space in front of our seats and started panicking that I was too late and wouldn’t fit anyway, I remembered. I don’t need to hide. I’m supposed to be on this bus.

So now I’m grinning something silly.

"I’m Kate!" Ponytail shouts over the hubbub. Meanwhile she squashes down her backpack and scoots closer. "Isn’t Booker T even better than you imagined?" Her long ponytail swings and whacks me square across the face.

Tony bursts into a laugh behind us. Kate gasps and turns, and her ponytail smacks him too.

Tony leans into our row, and right away I rack my brain. What would Reena want me to ask? Something about that actor she likes, Cody Lane? No, that’d probably embarrass her. A lot has been embarrassing her lately. Saturday it was my t-shirt. "It’s lime green!" she yelled. "It’s comfortable," I said and shrugged.

Finally I say to Tony, "You’re new to Booker T too, right?"

"Yup, certified smarty-pants." He puffs out his chest like there’s a medal pinned to his polo.

I laugh and Kate starts gushing about the computer labs we toured today. "What’s your favorite part of Booker T?" she asks when she’s done.

"Um, the computers were cool," I say and snap one of my jacket pockets.

Tony’s eyes shoot upwards, but he grins.

That's when I blurt, "Really, I got tired of lying."

Kate turns. "What do you mean?"

My fingers itch to pull my hood over my head and I have to jam them under my legs. But I spill it all.

Telling a long-held secret, it turns out, is like releasing an overfilled balloon you just untied. The opening’s all twisted at first, so the air spurts and the balloon zigs every which way. But eventually, everything settles. There’s a steady hiss and then the balloon lands.

Eventually, I get into a rhythm too.

I tell them how my family moved to Darlington two years ago. How it turned out the school in our neighborhood wasn’t very good. I ended up registered at another school with the address of a family friend. I’ve been lying about addresses and hiding on buses ever since.

I tell all that in one breath. Kate chews her lower lip. Really she looks about to grab both my shoulders and lunge in for a hug. I lean back, because I’m more of a sideways hug kind of person. Still, it’s sweet.

Tony nods. "Sounds rough."

"Yeah," I say. "You wouldn’t believe how many times you have to give your address in school."

He starts rattling off the forms we filled out just today in orientation.

"Not just forms." I shudder at a memory. "Did you have that map unit last year in your schools?"

"Yes!" He leans forward. "Oh man, you had to do that for your fake address?"

"Yup. Draw a map from school to this house I’d never been in, count the traffic lights and stops signs along the way, diagram the alternate routes, sketch the important buildings…." I go on, listing the tortures. "Did that unit last forever?"

Kate’s eyes go wide. "So what did you do?"

"Well, I got pretty good at lying." I grin. "But I don’t need to anymore, right? Booker T’s citywide!"

They laugh with me, and I’m already imagining other new experiences: running to each others’ homes after dinner, hanging out on each others’ front steps. Kate grabs my hand and squeezes it. I hesitate, then squeeze back. We’re beaming, and she squeals, "This is going to be the best year! I’m so excited!"

And that’s how I feel. My big secret is gone. This is going to be the best year. No more hiding.

I sit and watch the blood run down his arm. It isn’t my job to wipe it away, not yet anyway. Today I just get to watch Jonathan use his rag to remove the ink-stained liquid. I am a witness to all of this and can’t participate in making him bleed. The fact that I am not the one causing the pain is truly killing me. I want my hands on him. I want to be the one holding the needle etching into his skin, spilling pain and blood. It will be my turn soon, but not until I turn 18. Damn laws.

“You’re sweating.” Jonathan says.

“Um, sorry.” I get up quickly and leave the room. I just cannot handle being a non-participant and Jonathan is beginning to get suspicious. None of the other tattoo technicians get excited about blood, just the art. The last thing I want is for anyone to see how anxious I am, even though I have been groomed since age 14 to take over the business for Jonathan. Business is business and my need has absolutely nothing to do with that part of things.

I fear my shaking hands are going to give me away, as are the beads of sweat clinging to my forehead. I turn on the cold water and scoop it up to my face. I need to settle the redness that has surely invaded my pale skin. Focusing on breathing slowly, I use the sink as support. Be calm. Breathe.

That was very close. I almost revealed myself by getting too excited. I don’t think Jonathan could handle knowing about what is growing inside of me, my need. I think every day I am getting worse. The sickness is getting closer and closer to the top of my skin. I feel like anyone who looks at me can see it bubbling just under the surface. I have been so good at hiding myself, I mean it has been five years since I came here to live with Jonathan and he doesn’t even know how badly I want to hurt someone. The need to make someone bleed has swelled up my insides, so much that I can’t think of much else. My control is about to get away from me.

Get it together Brooklyn. You can do this. Deep breath to fill my lungs and I walk back to the side room where Jonathan is working. I focus on continuing to breathe deeply, in and out. Thankfully, it seems as though this session is finished. The big man is sitting up on the table, while Jonathan is smearing A & D Ointment on the completed piece. Although it is just an outline, one of a dragon, he still takes precaution using gloves and sterile dressing to protect himself and the man’s new tattoo.

Although Jonathan completed the outline, this man is the one who will be the first one I will get to sink my needles into. Just one short month until I can finally satiate my need, practice my art on a human arm. No more sketch pads and grapefruit. Real, live skin that will bleed as I work. I shutter just thinking about being the one to inflict pain, rather than the other way around. No more will I be the victim.

“All done, man.” Jonathan says. “Brooklyn here will be working with me to shade in your tat during your next session. You’re still cool with this right?”

“Yup.” Turning to me he says, “Don’t screw up little girl.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” No way I would screw up my change at piercing his skin with my needles.

I knew that Jonathan had another customer arriving shortly. I keep his calendar in my brain, burned there and scarred by my need. This was the only thing that kept me moving through the day. School was for those who were normal, which I definitely was not. Cleaning up the workspace and setting up for clients was therapeutic for me. It was the time I needed to think and reflect on things. Dream about completing the perfect tattoo on a special client. One who would be able to break through the pain and allow me to go deeper; bleeding them more than normal. Where else could I get the chance? Here, I can be in control. Everything would be legal. This is my home. My safe place. My school.

For a while I tried school, but even at twelve I couldn’t be counted on paying attention in class. All my time spent here was daydreaming about how I could hurt someone and not get caught. Pulling the hair of the boy or girl in front of me was too juvenile, plus I would get caught.

Some days, I didn’t even make it to school. All I wanted to do was draw in my sketchbook and if I saw something interesting on the walk to school, I’d stop and work. The school administration did not find this interest conducive to learning, but Jonathan saw potential in my scribblings. During one long meeting at school it was decided that it was best to home school me and give me the space I needed to grow as an artist. Not traditionally what a parent would do, but then again Jonathan and I are the total and complete opposite of traditional.

Living with Jonathan has been pretty easy. The first day we met he said to me, “I am not your father. You and me, we’re partners in this thing we call life. We will stick together, so that nothing will happen to us. Okay kid?”

I didn’t need my father or my mother. They were the one who caused all of the trouble and allowed me to be hurt. Had that night happened, I’d still be with them. Jonathan would save me, he’d be able to help me to channel my hate and need for vengeance in a positive direction. He did all of this unknowingly.

“Earth to Brooklyn.”

“Huh?” I turned to see Jonathan standing next to me.

“Wow! You were totally in your own world there. Let’s get something to eat while we have some time before my next client. Then you really should do something school-like for awhile.”

Even though I didn’t physically go to school, I still had to check in and show I was making academic progress and following homeschooling guidelines. This meant every once in a while, Jonathan would instruct me to get some work done, rather than hang out in the shop.

“Fine Jonathan, I’ll do some school work after we eat. I’ll give it one hour.”

“Brook, you need to give it more time. You have done nothing this week and your grades on the recent assessments have shown it.”

My hands are shaking. I’m crying, too. I don’t know when that started.

Preston pounds on the door again.

“Come on, Joy, please.”

It’s the one-stall bathroom on the bottom floor of Stanwick High’s art department. Nobody comes down here before the first bell. Nobody will hear the noises I’m making, but I muffle them with my fist anyway.

“We should just go up to first period. We have to act normal.” He’s pleading now. “It’s almost eight. It’s seven-fifty-seven.”

Now I do vomit. It’s quick and not that messy, but Preston starts banging on the door with both palms. “Joy, you should unlock this so I can…”

So he can what? He can’t do anything.

I smile at the toilet water. I’m sure I look crazy. That’s probably how I should look. “This is a girl’s bathroom.”

He blows air out through his mouth. “I don’t know what—you said—”

I said I was fine and that we were doing the right thing and that this would fix it all. I know what I said.

I just don’t know if I was right.

The bell rings. And the morning announcements come on:

“Good morning, Stanwick Stag Beetles.”

The stag beetle is our mascot. All the good mascots were taken, I guess.

“I have some very tragic news to give to you today.” A pause. Principal Eastman talks like he’s swallowed a ball of cotton. “Some of you may already have heard. Last night, a member of our community passed away.”

Preston isn’t knocking anymore. I lay on my side and press my cheek against the cold tile. I close my eyes.

“Adam Gordon was a senior and a member of the lacrosse team. I would like to request that we have a moment of silence for him now.”

Suddenly, the school is haunted.

Eastman picks up: “Any student who wishes may leave class to attend group meetings with any of our school counselors that will take place throughout the day. My wish is that we can all support each other today.”

On the second floor, someone starts wailing. Preston is muttering shitshitshit under his breath.

And everyone begins to grieve for the boy that I killed.

Adam Gordon was handsome.

The kind of jaw you had to imagine touching. Full lips. Shoulders and chest and stomach like an Egyptian god. Everyone loved him. Stanwick sports are notoriously pathetic, but he sailed the lacrosse team through a 14-0 season. At any given time, he had ten kids hanging off him. And girls. Girls only wanted Adam Gordon.

Except my twin. My Grace. She didn’t want him.

But he took her anyway.

So I took him.

Preston’s death grip on my wrist shakes me out of my thoughts.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. Quietly. “Just pretend like you’re fine.”

“Everyone’s looking at us.”

“Nobody’s looking at us.”

I’m right. First period’s in two minutes, but the hallway is flooded, and nobody is looking at us. They’re all whispering. Underclassmen, the ones who didn’t know Adam Gordon—the few—are excited. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened at Stanwick High since the gas leak scare two years ago.

Mostly everyone else has tears in their eyes.

Some sob openly. Iris Bowden and Sarah McCaughney cling to each other by the trophy case. A member of the lacrosse team stands with his face white, his hands clenched. My classmates don’t wave when they see me. They stare blankly at the wall. Maybe they’re seeing the last time they spoke to Adam. All I know is that we’re invisible right now.

“Should I fake cry?” whispers Preston.

"No. I mean, if you can, I guess.” My own eyes are already puffy.

He screws up his nose. It looks ridiculous, so I touch his shoulder. He stops. His green eyes are wider, more frightened, than usual. He has goose pimples all along his arms.

“Do you still feel sick?” he asks.

“A little.”

“Do you want a Tums?”

He doesn’t understand why I’m not talking much, why I’m pale. I told him that killing Adam Gordon would make me happy.

That’s why he helped me.

“Do you want to see something?” He hesitates in front of the water fountain. “I have a new one.”

“Yeah, sure.” My voice is thick.

He brightens and takes out a colorful string, tangling it between his fingers until an intricate pattern stretches between them.

“It’s called Two Mountains and a Stream.” He smiles.

I hear moaning. I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl.

His smile fades. “You should know—you didn’t—do anything wrong.”

He puts a hand on my wrist. He doesn’t usually touch people willingly, so I force a grin. “We finally did it, didn’t we?”

He nods so enthusiastically that some of his brown deer hair flops onto his forehead. “We did.”

My first period class is canceled. The teacher takes everyone outside for a walk.

I don’t go. I hide in the bathroom again and let myself collapse a little more. Then I tell myself to get up, and I do. I go to one of the group counseling meetings. I guess I want to see how badly I’ve hurt everyone.

I told myself I would feel the guilt.

The couches in Mrs. Hui’s room are an ugly purple and occupied. Adam Gordon’s friends sit clumped. Makeup streaks the face of Marissa Lindblatt, Adam Gordon’s last girlfriend, and Paige Kent, the girl he cheated on her with. They’re hugging. Either they don’t know about the cheating or they don’t care.

I sit on the carpet by the door. I have to remember that this is worth it. That this will fix my sister. But all I can breathe is the guilt, a corrosive black fog that burns out everything else.

“He brought me daisies the day before,” Marissa gulps. “They were his favorite flower. He was sweet like that, to have a favorite flower.”

Paige opens her mouth and shuts it. Maybe Adam Gordon brought her daisies too. I saw them both at the party, the one on Sunday, the one where he died.

“That’s it,” says Mrs. Hui. Her long black hair is tied in a bun. “Cherish the good memories.”

Monday, November 5, 2012

Our November 1st Five Pages Workshop entries are posted below. Please scroll down to read them.

The workshop will be guest mentored by A.C. Gaughen this month. Lisa Gail Greenand/or I will work alongside her to tell the workshop participants what we see in those first five pages with respect to voice, plot, characters, setting, pacing and writing in general. Depending on the mentor's schedule, she may comment only on the participants' initial entry, on the initial entry and one revision, or on both revisions. Participants will also get feedback and comments from their peers throughout the month, and have the opportunity to post revisions each week so they'll end up with the strongest possible start.

We invite everyone to comment, too! Come participate, lurk, learn, and just enjoy the process. Read the pages on the tabs at the top of the blog to learn more about the workshop, how to evaluate opening pages, and about great openings in general.

About A.C. Gaughen

A.C. has been madly in love with writing since she was in kindergarten. She shared her first original story in first grade, which dealt with a gorilla finding someone naked in the shower, and was, sadly, the culmination of her humor writing skills because it got her kicked out of class.

She wrote all through middle school and starting submitting novels to publishers when she was thirteen. All through high school she wrote in a notebook instead of taking class notes, finishing several more novels. Fast forward through college, a graduate writing program, and three novels written during her graduate program. SCARLET, her fabulous retelling of the Robin Hood legend, came out this year. You can catch her on her website or on twitter as @acgaughen.

So there you have it, overnight success in a lifetime, and she's here to pass on what she has learned to help five workshop participants develop their manuscripts and start off right.

Name: Ki-Wing Merlin
Genre: Middle Grade Mystery
Title: Weaving a Net Is Better than Praying for Fish at the Edge of the Water

Reena likes Tony Arias, so I’m keeping an eye on him.

“Sure, I can tail him!” I said when she asked me after school. Then I
jumped up, zipped my jacket and flipped its hood over my head. Behind
us, the metal double doors of our school banged open and another wave
of kids poured into the yard. Crouching low on one leg and splaying
the other, I grinned at Reena and raised a finger to my lips.
“Ninja-style.”

But she shrieked, “No!” and waved her hands in front of her face. “Get
up! Come on, Allie. You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Allen,” I corrected and stood slowly. I was about to fall anyway.

She rolled her eyes. “We’re too old to be acting like tomboys.” Reena
doesn’t usually count herself with me as a tomboy, so that was
generous of her actually.

But I insisted, “It’s my name.”

Still I smiled and sat down beside her on the brick wall. A sneaker
flew overhead and into an oak. Leaves shook down, mixing with those
kicked up by the skateboarders below. And Reena and I leaned into each
other, a kind of sideways hug. This was going to be the best year. I
was in a new school finally, and my best friend was here with me.

So I'm on a crowded Darlington City bus, riding home from school on
the first day of seventh grade. I’m squished in a row halfway to the
back, just in front of Tony and beside a ponytailed girl who can’t
stop bouncing. I’m squished because Ponytail’s supersized backpack
takes up most of her orange plastic seat and half of mine too. There’s
a faint sour smell, like maybe the baby screaming on his mother’s lap
across the aisle needs changing.

Still I’ve got a big grin on. Sure I climbed onto the bus and stole
straight to a window. I always do that. But Ponytail plopped down next
to me, and between when I peeked at the space in front of our seats
and started panicking that I was too late and wouldn’t fit anyway, I
remembered. I don’t need to hide. I’m supposed to be on this bus.

So now I’m grinning something silly.

“I’m Kate!” she shouts over the hubbub. Meanwhile she squashes down
her backpack and scoots closer. “Isn’t Booker T. even better than you
imagined?” Her long ponytail swings and whacks me square across the
face.

Tony bursts into a laugh behind us. Kate gasps and turns, and her
ponytail smacks him too. Rubbing my eyes, I crack up. I double over,
grasping my sides, and I’m not even a little bit invisible. Kate’s
cheeks flush.

“I’m Allen,” I say and push back my bangs. Goodbye invisibility.

Then Tony juts his chin out at us and asks, “Why’d you come to Booker
T.?” and I know he doesn’t just mean are we brainy enough.

“Escape,” I blurt. “I got tired of lying.” I rush to get it all out.

My family moved to Darlington two years ago. It turned out our
neighborhood school wasn’t very good. I ended up registered at another
school with the address of a family friend. I’ve been lying about
addresses and hiding on buses since then. I didn’t care that Booker T.
was for smarty-pants.

I tell all that in one breath before I can chicken out. My fingers
itch to pull my hood over my head and I jam them under my legs. Kate
stares at me and chews her lower lip, but she’s nodding too. Really
she looks about to grab both my shoulders and lunge in for a hug, but
her backpack has crept by up and is in the way.

Tony’s eyes twinkle. “Sounds rough.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Would you believe how many times you have to give your
address in school?”

He starts rattling off the forms we filled out just today in orientation.

“And not just forms.” I shudder at the memory. “Did you have that map
unit last year in your schools?”

“Yes!” He leans forward. “Oh man, you had to do that for your fake address?”

“Yup. Draw a map from school to this house I’d never been in, count
the traffic lights and stops signs along the way, diagram the
alternate routes, sketch the important buildings….” I go on, listing
the tortures. Is telling this actually sort of… fun? “Did that unit
last forever?”

Kate’s eyes go wide. “So what did you do?”

“Well, I got pretty good at lying.” I grin. “But I don’t need to
anymore, right? Booker T.’s citywide!”

They laugh with me, and now I’m imagining other new experiences:
running to each others’ homes after dinner, hanging out on each
others’ front steps. Kate grabs my hand and squeezes it. I hesitate,
then squeeze back. We’re beaming, and she squeals, “This is going to
be the best year! I’m so excited!”

And that’s how I feel. My big secret is gone. This is going to be the
best year. No more hiding.

I sit and watch the blood run down his arm. It isn’t my job to wipe it away, I only watch Jonathan use his rag to swipe the evidence away. I am a witness to all of this and can’t participate in making him bleed. This is truly killing me. I want my hands on him. I want to be the one holding the needle etching into his skin, causing the pain and blood to spill. It will be my turn soon, but not until I turn 18. Damn laws. This is so frustrating.

“You’re sweating.” Jonathan says.

“Um, sorry.” I get up quickly and leave the room. I just cannot handle being a non-participant and Jonathan is beginning to get suspicious. The last thing I want is for him to see how anxious I am, even though I have been groomed since age 14 to take over the business for him.

My shaking hands are giving me away, as are the beads of sweat clinging to my forehead. I turn on the cold water and scoop it up to my face. I need to settle the redness that has surely invaded my pale skin. Focusing on breathing slowly, I use the sink as support. Be calm.

That was very close. I almost gave myself away. I don’t think Jonathan could handle knowing about what is growing inside of me, my need. I think every day I am getting worse, the sickness is getting closer and closer to the top of my skin. I feel like everyone who looks at me can see it. I have been so good at hiding myself, I mean it has been five years since I came here to live with Jonathan and he doesn’t even know. And that’s how I want it to stay.

Get it together Brooklyn. You can do this. Deep breath to fill my lungs and I walk back to the side room where Jonathan is working. Thankfully, it seems as though this session is finished. The big man is sitting up on the table, while Jonathan is smearing A & D Ointment on the completed piece. Although it is just an outline, he still takes precaution using gloves and sterile dressing to protect himself and the man’s new tattoo.

Although Jonathan completed the outline, this man is the one who will be my first. The first one who I will get to ink, right after my birthday just one short month from now. This is the day I have been waiting for, the one where I will get to practice my art on a human arm. No more sketch pads and grapefruit. Real, live skin that will bleed as I work. I shutter just thinking about it.

“All done, man.” Jonathan says. “Brooklyn here will be working with me to shade in your tat during your next session. Even though she is only an apprentice now, she is definitely ready to do this work. You’re still cool with this right?”

“Yup. Don’t screw up little girl.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I say.

“Alright, I’ll take you up front and we will set up your next session. Brooklyn, I have another customer at three that you could get set up for.”

“K.” I knew that Jonathan had another customer. I kept his calendar in my brain, burned there and scarred by my need. This was the only thing that kept me moving through the day. School was for those who were normal, which I definitely was not. Cleaning up the work space and setting up for clients was therapeutic for me. It was the time I needed to think and reflect on things. This was my school. My home.

After a decade of working for someone else and not reaping the benefits of all his hard work, Jonathan decided to open his own tattoo parlor. He bought a little house located on a main street in town that was zoned commercial, this way he could live in and work from the same place. After six months of renovation he opened the doors of The Bleeding Heart. That same month, I came to live with him. Jonathan is my uncle. An uncle who never married and never wanted kids, because he said that the only one you can trust is yourself. But I was family and had no one else, so he changed his policy about the whole kid thing and gave me a home.

For a while I tried school, but even at twelve I couldn’t be counted on paying attention in class or on some days, even showing up. All I wanted to do was draw in my sketchbook and if I saw something interesting on the walk to school, I’d stop and work. The school administration did not find this interest conducive to learning, but Jonathan saw potential in my scribblings. During one long meeting at school it was decided that it was best to home school me and give me the space I needed to grow as an artist. Not traditionally what a parent would do, but then again Jonathan and me are the total and complete opposite of traditional.

Living with Jonathan has been pretty easy. The first day we met he said to me, “I am not your father. You and me, we’re partners in this thing we call life. We will stick together, so that nothing will happen to us. Okay kid?”

My response was a very timid shake of my head to say “yes.” Once that exchange finished, the social worker left. We have seen her a few times after that, but once my adoption was finalized she became a distant memory.

“Earth to Brooklyn.”

“Huh?” I turned to see Jonathan standing next to me.

“Wow! You were totally in your own world there. Let’s get something to eat while we have some time before my next client. Then you really should do something school-like for awhile.”

Even though I didn’t physically go to school, I still had to check in and show I was making academic progress and following homeschooling guidelines. This meant every once in a while, Jonathan would instruct me to get some work done, rather than hanging out in the shop. I seriously hated having to do work. I mean, it was all super easy for me. I also don’t understand why I have to learn about things like World War I and Vietnam. It is called history for a reason, one which I am certain I won’t repeat. How would little ‘ol me cause an inciting riot beginning another war? Ah, little to no chance there so it’s stupid that I have to learn all of this and take a test on it just so I can pass a course these state bureaucrats mandate. The whole educational process is ridiculous.

“Fine Jonathan, I’ll do some school work after we eat. I’ll give it one hour.”

“Brook, you need to give it more time. You have done nothing this week and your grades on the recent assessments have shown it. The only choice you have here is to work at it little more each day or spend more time in one sitting. You are so close to graduating to blow it now. All you need is to get through the next few months and it’s over. Once you take your final exams, it’s over. For good. Graduating is a non-issue, remember? We made a deal.”

My hand felt like it had been dipped in a lava flow. The palm burned so good. The pain was an ultimate satisfaction. I wanted to reach out and do it again. Smack. Slap that icy grin right off her heavily lip-glossed, dark purple lips.

I sat down on the bench running between the turquoise lockers, trying to shut down the girl inside me that freaked out. The girl willing to slap a stranger just for mouthing off at her, and find the sweet girl who wore pearl earrings and thought of everyone as a friend.

“Oh princess,” she said, peering over me so her straw-like hair with its tips dyed bright pink tickled my face, “you don’t even know what you just unleashed.”

Friends: 0, Enemies: 1. What a way to kick off senior year at a new high school.

Pink-Hair spun on her heel and strutted towards the door like the girl’s locker room was her runway. The word “heels” didn’t really capture the sheer height of her boots. They were heeled and platformed. Maybe she thought King Kong would show up at Clatskanie High for a showdown in the cafeteria and she single-handedly would have to take him down with her laced-up-to-the thigh black leather boots.

I rubbed my hands together, checking over my shoulder to be sure no one saw.

Pink-Hair wasn’t the type to be slapped and tell. With a mouth like that, it probably happened to her all the time.

“Where’s your mummy?” I heard her voice replay in my mind. “Don’t have a mummy around to let you know when you outgrew trainer bras?”

I pulled at the uncomfortably tight bra strap and wondered if maybe she was right.

Still - right or wrong, Pink-Hair had no right to talk crap about my family. I could ignore a lot. But not that. She’d gone much too far.

I smoothed the pleats of my bright blue skirt and readjusted the strapless shirt with a tribal motif of turquoise and peach arrows. A three quart sleeve cardigan finished off the outfit and kept me high school dress code compliant.

Compliant – exactly the girl I wanted to be. Nothing fit in better than compliant. It was easy to be friends with the compliant girl and quite frankly, after a year sans friends, I was ready to have that back again.

The new school meant the past was erased. My mind spread out my life on a timeline and with scissors carefully went in and snipped out the year before, junior year, the year everything went wrong. Seamlessly, I could just paste my timeline back together, so no one at my new school would know there was anything missing.

They’d never know the part of me I was hiding.

Focus, I told myself. No more outbursts, no more anger, just smile. And if nothing else, maybe I wouldn’t have to see Pink-Hair again and even if I did, surely she’d get the picture – don’t talk trash about my mother again.

From the driver’s seat of my car in the back of the school’s gravel parking lot, the small town of Clatskanie stretched out like a panorama photograph. The streets were wide and sun bleached, the sidewalks large enough to accommodate bicycles and pedestrians alike. The high school behind me dominated the south end of town with its lush pasture of a football and soccer field.
I promised myself that only this one time I’d let myself eat lunch in my car. I was still shook up after slapping that girl after PE and quite frankly didn’t feel up for braving a cafeteria full of strangers, scouting for a new group of friends.

Instead, I was satisfied to spy on the upper classmen who had driver’s licenses and went off campus for lunch and underclassmen who just preferred to hang out in the exhaust-ridden parking lot. I watched everyone through my rearview mirror, not wanting to be called out on my snooping.

The students of Clatskanie seemed shockingly similar to my old classmates back in Portland. They drove the same range of cars – from brand new to shit-colored beaters. Brightly colored garters, remains of proms past, dangled off the rear view mirrors of a few of the cars and trucks. I couldn’t help but feel a little homesick, thinking back to the two homecomings I’d attended as an underclassman and the teal and pink garter I’d decorated with feathers and sparkling gem stones. My stomach tightened at the memory, or possibly just from the unappetizing lukewarm ham sandwich I was eating. But it was hard to know what I was homesick for, considering we’d moved to Clatskanie specifically to get away from the high school in Portland full of students who hated me.

I shook off the memory, tossing the rest of my sandwich out the window for a lucky seagull or crow and pulled my schedule out of my pocket, scanning it for the 100th time.

Homeroom – Wednesdays only – Mr. Lee, room 124.

Carefully I folded the paper back on its seams, the creases so weak it was only a matter of time before they ripped like a carefully planned tear.

With reluctance, I left the safety of my car and walked towards the school, trying to slip a smile to a group of girls with high ponytails who seemed nice but also confused by friendliness from someone they didn’t know.

I paused in the main hallway, still empty since the bell indicated the end of lunch hadn’t rung yet. The wall was covered with photos, all framed with contrasting bright white and black mats that looked worn at the corners from years of being knocked down and rehung. It was an ode to Clatskanie past – pictures of the state championship winning basketball team three years in a row, the graduating class for every year dating back to the schools establishment in 1946, and the happy smiling faces of kids in countless clubs, happy to have found their place in the wasteland that is high school.

But it was the pictures of prom court that really made me linger. I couldn’t help but smile back at their lovely faces; all standing in a row, their crowns balanced carefully atop piles of curls and swirls of hair. It was easy to pick out the Queen – always the one with the biggest smile.

I stopped at the picture of the prom queen from the year before. The year my sister Cassie was supposed to win. The year she was supposed to graduate, but had dropped out instead. I couldn’t help but hate that other girl, that other girl with her floor length blood red dress and lips to match. I leaned in – Anastasia was her name. How fitting. It felt like Anastasia had stolen the crown right off of Cassie’s head.

It was a ridiculous thing to think, because Cassie and I didn’t even go to Clatskanie High with Anastasia the year before, so there was no way Cassie could’ve been prom queen of my new school. But it just reminded me of everything that had been snatched away from us. Prom queens were different back in Portland – something sacred.

Now I do vomit. It’s quick and not that messy, but Preston starts banging on the door with both palms. “Joy, you should unlock this so I can…”

So he can what? He can’t do anything.

I smile at the toilet water. I’m sure I look crazy. That’s probably how I should look. “This is a girl’s bathroom.”

He blows air out through his mouth. “I don’t know what—you said—”

I said I was fine and that we were doing the right thing and that this would fix it all. I know what I said.

I just don’t know if I was right.

The bell rings. And the morning announcements come on:

“Good morning, Stanwick Stag Beetles.”

The stag beetle is our mascot. All the good mascots were taken, I guess.

“I have some very tragic news to give to you today.” A pause. Principal Eastman talks like he’s swallowed a ball of cotton. “Some of you may already have heard. Last night, a member of our community passed away.”

Preston isn’t knocking anymore. I lay on my side and press my cheek against the cold tile. I close my eyes.

“Adam Gordon was a senior and a member of the lacrosse team. I would like to request that we have a moment of silence for him now.”

Suddenly, the school is haunted.

Eastman picks up: “Any student who wishes may leave class to attend group meetings with any of our school counselors that will take place throughout the day. My wish is that we can all support each other today.”

On the second floor, someone starts wailing. Preston is muttering shitshitshit under his breath.

And everyone begins to grieve for the boy that I killed.

Adam Gordon was handsome.

The kind of jaw you had to imagine touching. Full lips. Shoulders and chest and stomach like an Egyptian god. Everyone loved him. Stanwick sports are notoriously pathetic, but he sailed the lacrosse team through a 14-0 season. At any given time, he had ten kids hanging off him. And girls. Girls only wanted Adam Gordon.

Except my twin. My Grace. She didn’t want him.

But he took her anyway.

So I took him.

Preston has a death grip on my wrist.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. Quietly. “Just pretend like you’re fine.”

“Everyone’s looking at us.”

“Nobody’s looking at us.”

I’m right. First period’s in two minutes, but the hallway is flooded, and nobody is looking at us. They’re all whispering. Underclassmen, the ones who didn’t know Adam Gordon—the few—are excited. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened at Stanwick High since the gas leak scare two years ago.

Mostly everyone else has tears in their eyes.

Some sob openly. Iris Bowden and Sarah McCaughney cling to each other by the trophy case. A member of the lacrosse team stands with his face white, his hands clenched. My classmates don’t wave when they see me. They stare blankly at the wall. Maybe they’re seeing the last time they spoke to Adam. All I know is that we’re invisible right now.

“Should I fake cry?” whispers Preston.

“No. I mean, if you can, I guess.” My own eyes are already puffy.

He screws up his nose. It looks ridiculous, so I touch his shoulder. He stops. His green eyes are wider, more frightened, than usual. He has goose pimples all along his arms.

“Do you still feel sick?” he asks.

“A little.”

“Do you want a Tums?”

He doesn’t understand why I’m not talking much, why I’m pale. His Asbergers makes it hard for him to cue in on things like that. I told him that killing Adam Gordon would make me happy.

That’s why he helped me.

“Do you want to see something?” He hesitates in front of the water fountain. “I have a new one.”

“Yeah, sure.” My voice is thick.

He brightens and takes out a colorful string, tangling it between his fingers until an intricate pattern stretches between them.

“It’s called Two Mountains and a Stream.” He smiles.

I hear moaning. I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl.

His smile fades. “You should know—you didn’t—do anything wrong.”

He puts a hand on my wrist. He doesn’t usually touch people willingly, so I force a grin. “We finally did it, didn’t we?”

He nods so enthusiastically that some of his brown deer hair flops onto his forehead. “We did.”

My first period class is canceled. The teacher takes everyone outside for a walk.

I don’t go. I hide in the bathroom again and let myself collapse a little more. Then I tell myself to get up, and I do.

I go to one of the group counseling meetings. I guess I want to see how badly I’ve hurt everyone.

I told myself I would feel the guilt.

The couches in Mrs. Hui’s room are an ugly purple and occupied. Adam Gordon’s friends sit clumped. Makeup streaks the face of Marissa Lindblatt, Adam Gordon’s last girlfriend, and Paige Kent, the girl he cheated on her with. They’re hugging. Either they don’t know about the cheating or they don’t care.

I sit on the carpet by the door.

“He brought me daisies the day before,” Marissa gulps. “They were his favorite flower. He was sweet like that, to have a favorite flower.”

Paige opens her mouth and shuts it. Maybe Adam Gordon brought her daisies too. I saw them both at the party, the one on Sunday, the one where he died.

“That’s it,” says Mrs. Hui. Her long black hair is tied in a bun. “Cherish the good memories.”

FREE FIRST FIVE PAGES WORKSHOP

Our September workshop will open for submissions on Saturday, September 2nd at noon, EST. Participants will be mentored by two published authors through three rounds of revisions and receive additional feedback from our literary agent mentor on their first five pages and their pitch. The agent mentor will offer additional feedback to the best of the five manuscripts in the workshop.